The Illusion of the Disappearing Act
by BJ Thompson
Summary: If you're Joe Mannix, how do find someone who really knows how to disappear?
1. Chapter 1

The Illusion of the Disappearing Act

by

BJ Thompson

Chapter 1

Sport jacket draped over his arm and still knotting his tie, Joe Mannix emerged from the doorway of his office to the outer office of 17 Paseo Verde. He received a call from Jerry Anderson less than a half hour ago asking for this early morning meeting.

He moved straight to the coffee pot. This early in the day he needed a cup of coffee even if he had to make it himself. Before he could get the water in the pot, his office door rattled with someone knocking. He admitted Jerry Anderson and a balding man he didn't know, but somehow felt he'd seen before.

"Jerry, long time, no see." A year ago Jerry and Peggy had ended their relationship. Joe guessed the breakup was prompted by Jerry's frequent absences caused by his being an on-call pilot for Anthony Blake, the world famous magician. He never asked Peggy what happened. He kept his hands off her private life and she did the same for him.

"Joe, Max Pomeroy."

"The columnist. I thought I recognized you." Joe shook Max's hand and shuttled them into his office. "I love your column. I can't wait to see who you're going to piss off next." The coffee would have to wait.

"Mr. Mannix, thank you for meeting with us outside of your normal business hours."

Joe rounded the corner of his desk and threw his jacket on the back of his desk chair. As was normal for his clients, especially those who woke him out of a sound sleep, they squirmed in their seats. Max spoke again as Joe settled into his chair.

"We came to you because we're concerned about Anthony Blake."

"And . . .?"

"Joe, he's missing," Jerry said.

"Why come to me? LAPD has a department devoted to finding missing persons."

"When the missing person is Anthony Blake, well, let's say we prefer discretion. We're not positive he's missing and we want to keep this quiet."

"Max, how can you say that?" Jerry said. "Tony missed a charity performance last night."

"Wait, start at the beginning, if there is one. So when was the last time you saw Blake?" Joe asked.

"It's been almost thirty-six hours. He said he was going to the warehouse to work on his new illusion."

"I take it that you've already searched there?"

"That's the first thing we thought of. That while he was practicing his illusions something went wrong and he was injured and unable to call for help. No Tony. His car wasn't there either." Jerry answered.

"What's the license plate on that?" Joe pulled out a pad of paper and a pen to take notes.

"S-P-I-R-I-T," Jerry spelled.

"Spirit? What type of car?"

"A 1974 white Corvette Stingray with a t-top, tan interior."

"So he wasn't at this warehouse. Are there other places he goes?

"The Castle, it's a magician's club. He goes out to eat at different restaurants when we're in town. His plane, he lives on it."

"Yeah, I remember hearing about that." Joe leaned back in his chair rocked a bit as he thought. "So far no ransom note. Has he done this before?"

"No," Jerry answered.

"Yes," Max countered. "This was before you became his pilot. He disappeared three times but never for more than twenty-four hours. He returned with no explanation of where he'd been or why."

"What makes this different?"

"The fact that he missed a performance and we've both called his car phone and gotten no answer," Jerry said.

"What's the car phone number?"

Max answered, "KL5-5780."

"Any enemies? A girl he sawed in half and couldn't get back together? Any man who can make objects and people, including himself, disappear is not going to be easy to find. And you're supposing he wants to be found. What would happen if I start looking for him and he returns again with no explanation?"

"This feels wrong."

"I agree with Jerry. He would never purposely miss a performance."

"Okay, I'll look into this. I may need help tracking his bank accounts. Do either of you have access to those?"

"I'll have his accountant alert you to any credit card charges or bank account activity. Of course, if Tony returns . . ." Max's voice trailed off. He didn't like keeping secrets from Tony.

"I'll make like I was never involved."

"Thanks, Joe." Jerry said.

Max stood and offered Joe his hand. "Anything else I can do to help. Jerry knows how to get in touch with me while I'm in Los Angeles. Thank you, Mr. Mannix, Jerry said we could come to you." Joe shook his hand again and walked with him to the outer office with Jerry trailing behind.

"Wait'll you get my bill. Jerry, will you be at the plane? I'd like to take a look."

"We're parked at the Santa Monica Municipal Airport, the private plane entrance. I'll be there getting the plane ready for a trip to New York just in case Tony returns or you find him."

Max waited for Jerry at the front door. "Jerry?"

"I'll be there in a second." Jerry said to Max. He glanced at Peggy's desk. "Peggy around?"

"It's a little early for her."

"I guess it is."

Joe waited. He realized the urgency for this early morning meeting may have been for Jerry to avoid seeing Peggy.

"Well, tell her I said 'hi' to her and Toby."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Uh, no."

"I'll see you at the plane." Joe said. Jerry nodded and left the office.

Joe finished making the coffee, grabbed the phone directory and returned to his desk. When he heard the key turn in the lock to the front door, he assumed it was 8:45 AM. He knew Peggy would be surprised to see the coffee brewing and him sitting at his desk rummaging through the Yellow Pages. He generally arrived in his office from his upstairs apartment about 9:05.

"Morning, Peggy." He didn't shift his attention from the phone directory.

"Good morning. What's going on to get you up this early?"

"Is the coffee ready yet?" He heard the tapping of her heels against the floor tiles and the tinkling of a spoon stirring the creamer into a mug. He took his coffee black.

"Jerry was here." He watched her hand tremble when she placed one of the mugs on his desk. "He's a client."

"Jerry Anderson?"

"Do you know another Jerry?"

"Of course, there's the bag boy at the grocery store and then there's . . ."

"I get the picture. He said to say 'hi' to you and Toby." He handed her the notes he had taken. "See what you can track down on Blake's car. And there doesn't seem to be an address or phone number for The Castle in phone book. See if you could track that down. I forgot to get that from Jerry."

"Sure, Joe. What's going on? Why did Jerry hire you?"

"Anthony Blake is missing and he and Max Pomeroy want it kept quiet."

"Missing?"

"As in A-W-O-L. Get moving on that car info."

Joe played with the pen on his desk. He listened to the phone clicks as Peggy dialed her contacts at the DVM and waited for her to finish her inquiry. A person doesn't disappear and then return without explaining no matter who he is. "Peggy, what's your opinion of Blake?"

"You've met him."

"Once, after a performance. When you and Jerry were together . . ." He hated reminding her of their past relationship. ". . . you were around him more."

She appeared in the door way between their offices. "I got the impression he was running even when he wasn't running."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know how else to say it." She leaned on the door frame. "Like he was ready to escape at any minute. Jerry mentioned that he was once imprisoned in Costa Verde on an espionage charge."

"Nice place, Costa Verde."

"You've been there?"

"Yeah, once with a gun to my head." Peggy raised her right eyebrow. Joe knew that signaled that she wanted to know more. "It's one of those short, long stories. I'll fill you in some other time."

The phone rang; Peggy ducked into the outer office to answer the phone at her desk. "Mr. Mannix's office . . . thanks, Gloria. Next lunch is on Joe."

"Well?"

"Tony's car was towed by A & A Tow Service, 1016 N Alvarado."

Joe grabbed his coat. "You know the drill – planes, trains, buses, rental cars. I need to know if he's left town."

"Right."

"After this, I'll be out at his plane trying to find a man who really knows how to disappear."


	2. Chapter 2

The Illusion of the Disappearing Act

by

BJ Thompson

Chapter 2

Joe realized long ago that missing people were puzzles, especially a missing person such as Anthony Blake, who disappeared and returned on his own. A lot of what Jerry and Max told him didn't make sense. What was he doing those other times he was missing? Well, not really missing as much as not where he was supposed to be.

When Joe arrived at the A & A Tow Service lot, the white Corvette was tucked away in a far corner. Between the gum chewing and comic book reading, Joe guessed the tow lot attendant was barely out of his teens.

"I'd like a little information."

"Yeah, like what?"

Joe waved a ten dollar bill in front of the attendant's face. "I want to take a look at the Corvette."

"You,the owner?"

"Can I take a look?"

The attendant snatched the ten. "Don't take anything from the vehicle." He pointed to a door that led to the lot and returned his attention to his comic book.

Joe inspected the car. No scrapes, scratches. The keys were still in the ignition. He marveled that the car hadn't been stolen. He got in and checked the glove compartment and under the seat. He flipped up the sun visors and found nothing. He checked the car phone and noted it had a dial tone. He released the hood and saw nothing out of place in the engine compartment. He removed the keys from the ignition and opened the trunk. Just a car jack and a spare. The car was too damn clean. Nothing besides the registration could claim the car belonged to Anthony Blake. He replaced the key in the ignition and returned to the office.

"How much is the tow bill?"

"Thirty-five dollars."

Joe pulled two twenties and a ten from his money clip. "A guy named Jerry Anderson will be by later to pick it up. Keep the change."

"Yeah, sure." The attendant pocketed the money.

"By the way, where was it picked up?"

"El Pescado Rojo Cantina and Bar parking lot on Santa Rosa"

"Who called to have it towed?

"The manager. He said it been parked there over twenty-four hours."

"Thanks."

The cantina was located a short drive from the tow lot. Joe arrived in time to see another car being hooked to a tow truck. A & A Towing was making life miserable for someone else.

A man, with shirt sleeves rolled up, stood in the doorway of the El Pescado Rojo watching the car being towed away.

"You the manager?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"I want to ask you about the car you had towed about a day or so ago."

"This is the first car I've had towed this week."

"A white Corvette. You said it had been parked in the lot for over twenty-four hours."

"I don't know anything about a white Corvette." He turned to enter the cantina.

"Wait a minute. The tow lot attendant said the manager called it in. Now you're the manager. Who else around here could do that?"

"Like I said I don't know anything about a Corvette. Besides look at the size of my parking lot," he said waving toward the eight parking spots squeezed between two buildings. "I never let any car stay around here that long. Usually the next day is when we tow. I've got to keep the lot clear for customers. No car would hang around here for twenty-four hours."

"Okay, yeah, thanks."

Joe, puzzled by who called the tow company about Blake's car, wondered if it wasn't the manager, then who? As he approached his car, he glanced across the street. George's, a local cafe, was directly across from the lot.

He dodged the traffic and jogged to the cafe. As he entered the café he checked the placard in the window for the hours the café was open – 5 AM to 11 PM. He seated himself in a window booth. A short, plump waitress with a sagging flip hairdo placed a menu on the table.

"What I want isn't on the menu."

"Like what?"

"I'm doing a favor for a friend. He seems to have misplaced his car, a white Corvette. Says he parked it across the street in the cantina parking lot, but as you can see it's not there. You didn't happen to see what happened to it?"

"Was your friend a slim guy, dressed sorta fancy casual, good looking, medium long brown hair?"

"Yeah, that could be him."

"He came in here a day or so ago, had breakfast and left. Didn't see which way he went. It was during the morning rush. Me and the other gals were pretty busy."

"If it was during the morning rush, why did you remember him?"

"Listen, mister, I ain't dead yet. Good looking man comes in here . . ." She eyed Joe. ". . . besides he wasn't a regular."

"Did you happen to see the car?"

"Saw it getting towed."

"That's all?"

"I'm not paid to look out the window all day. I got tables to wait. You want to order anything?"

Joe pulled out a ten dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the table. "Keep the change."

The waitress slipped the bill from the table to her pocket in one move.

Joe did his best thinking while driving. He would let his mind wander over what he knew and what he didn't know. By the time he arrived at his destination either he knew the answers or had more questions. Parking at the private plane gate, he didn't have any more answers and still the same questions. Maybe one more question – how much does a Boeing 707 jet cost? Plus the fuel can't be cheap. Yeah, he thought as he climbed the stairs docked at rear hatch to the plane, Anthony Blake lives pretty well.

"Jerry?" he called.

"Welcome aboard, Joe." Jerry greeted him from the cockpit. "Is there anything I can show you?"

"No, just let me wander around. I'll let you know." Joe inspected the interior of the main cabin. Everything he touched is the highest quality, real wood, real leather and silk. Nothing was fake. The man of illusions needed to have reality surround him. Joe visited Jerry in the cockpit. "Tell me, did you ever do any 'special' flights'?"

"What do you mean by special?"

"Something out of the ordinary."

"When you pilot a 707 for a world famous magician, every day is something out of the ordinary."

"Nothing comes to mind?"

"Hold on, wait a minute. Once we flew a group of his friends to Miami. Very hush, hush. I didn't even have to file a flight plan. The tower cleared me to take off immediately."

"When did this happen?"

"About a year ago."

"Were these friends of Blake's?" Joe asked.

"If they were, I'd never seen them before. And haven't seen them since."

"Miami? What happened after they arrived?"

"Nothing, them and all their gear left. They had so much stuff we had to leave the 'Vette in LA."

"Stuff?"

"Yeah, like the cases musicians use to carry their PA equipment and amps. They had a lot of large cases like that."

"And you'd never seen them before?"

"Tony said he was doing a favor for a friend."

"Pretty expensive favor. Do you remember anything about them? Did he mention anything at all?"

"Well, there was a beautiful woman, chestnut-colored brunette; about five foot eight and slender, a big, muscular guy, weightlifter type – actually loaded all the cases himself. He wouldn't let anyone else touch them. I think the blonde guy called him Willie."

"The blonde guy?"

"I could tell he was in charge. He's about your height. Very suit and tie kind of guy. He's that type that seems very friendly until you cross him some way."

"Who else?"

"A black man. He was very knowledgeable about electronics. He knew all about the avionics on the plane."

"And the woman?"

"Like I said, brunette, very pretty and a good chess player. She and Willie played a couple of games later in the flight. She beat him like a wet dog. The others kidded him that he would never beat her. He teased the other guys that he was the only one brave enough to take her on."

"Tall, blonde guy – the leader, a weightlifter, an electronics expert, and a pretty woman chess player. Sounds like some kind of team, like an act or something." Joe considered for a moment. "And you never filed a flight plan, so technically there's no record of the flight."

"Right, I expected that we'd stay in Miami a couple of days, maybe to bring them back to LA, but we were wheels up as soon as they got their stuff loaded onto a truck and we could get refueled."

"And you never asked Blake about it?"

"One thing you learn about Tony is you can ask a question, sometimes you get an answer and usually not the one you're expecting."

"Would you recognize them if you saw them again?"

"Probably. I know I'd remember the woman."

"By any chance, did anyone take pictures?"

"No, no reason to."

"No idea what they were doing in Miami?"

"Nope."

Joe paced the aisle. Was this connected to Blake's disappearance? Was this incident important? All he had was a missing man who might return any minute for no reason he could understand, no ransom note and the missing man's car parked in a tow lot. He spied a sketchbook lying on the desk. "Whose is this?"

"Tony's. He sketches out his ideas a lot. I've got a sketch he did of me and Peggy at my apartment."

"By chance, does he do sketches of his guests?"

"Sometimes, he does a sketch for the ladies he brings aboard. They love having him do a sketch for them."

"Would he have sketched these people?"

"I don't know. He does a lot of his figuring out how to do an illusion in these sketchbooks."

Joe was frustrated. "I'm not trying to steal his act. I'm trying to find him."

"Yeah, right, they're in his desk. Some of them are at the warehouse."

"Look through them and see if he did sketches of those passengers."

"Why would he do that?"

"Right now I've got nothing. Just take a look for me."

Joe watched for a moment as Jerry sifted through the sketchbooks. It was his turn to squirm.

"This is him – the blonde guy." Jerry showed Joe the page that held several small studies of a man's face. In a couple spaces on the page he saw attempts at some other faces, but the sketches were unfinished.

"I'll take this, get copies and return it later."

"You think he's involved?"

"Just a hunch. You don't take a multi-million dollar jet to Miami on a whim. He and Blake's other friends had to be doing something important. And the fact that you didn't have to file a flight plan tells me that somebody's got some muscle. Somebody besides that weightlifter."

"Tony does know some important people."

"Do you think Max might have seen this guy?"

"I don't know." Jerry scribbled on the sketchbook cover. "Here's his local address and phone number."

Joe recognized the address. "That's on Normandie near Wilshire?"

"Yes."

"Pretty expensive neighborhood."

"Max has the bread."

"Yeah, apparently." Joe started to leave. "By the way, Blake's car it at the A & A tow lot on Alvarado. I cleared it for you to pick it up."

"Thanks. I'll do that later." Jerry hesitated as Joe stepped to the hatch. "Joe . . . this morning . . . you know I didn't mean to hurt her. It's . . . I love my job and to be perfectly honest, I don't know when I could get another gig like this."

Like Jerry, Joe was torn between his career and having a family. Being a private detective was hard enough on him.

"You know Toby still asks about you," Joe said.

"I miss him, too."

"Maybe you can come to his Little League games when you're in town."

"Do you think Peggy would mind? If I came?"

"Even if she did, Toby would love it."

"I can't make all the games. My schedule . . ."

"Make it when you can. Maybe the three of us can get together, have a boys' night out and go to a Dodger game."

"Yeah, my treat." Jerry extended his hand to the private detective. "Thanks, Joe, for everything."

"Part of the service."

To Joe, Max Pomeroy's office was utilitarian – a phone, a desk with a typewriter, an office chair, a sideboard with a fax machine, a couch and an extra chair for a visitor. What Max paid for was the view. The floor to ceiling windows opened on a typical Southern California scene – beautiful mountain vistas and urban skyscrapers and a rare smog free day in Los Angeles. In the distance Joe saw the Tishman Plaza Office Building, better known as the home of Intertect, Ltd. From here he could hear the computers humming.

"What have you found out so far?" Max wasted no time on pleasantries. He waved Joe to the visitor's chair in front of his desk. Joe turned to the page with the sketch of the blonde guy and handed it to Max.

"Where did you get this? Isn't this one of Tony's sketchbooks?" Max asked.

"From the plane. Do you recognize that man?"

"Yes, I do. Is he connected to Tony's disappearance?"

"I don't know yet. Who is he?"

Max handed the sketchbook back to Joe. "I don't know. I do remember seeing him talking to Tony, perhaps two or three times. I was never introduced."

"Jerry said he flew this man, three others and cargo to Miami about a year ago. Blake told him these were friends of his."

"Like I said I wasn't . . . wait . . . I just realized . . . when I would see Tony talking to him, Tony would do his 24-hour disappearing act."

"So maybe he's connected to this one?"

"Perhaps." Max thoughtfully leaned back in his chair. "You know, I never thought to link him with Tony's other disappearances."

"If this man appears every time Blake disappears, then maybe he's not missing. He's off doing something he doesn't want anybody to know about."

"Did Jerry see him before Tony disappeared this time?" Max asked.

"Just on that flight to Miami. Do you still want me to continue looking for Blake?"

"I would have to say continue. This man may not be connected to Tony's disappearance in this instance, besides we've already discussed what to do if Tony suddenly returns. Would you mind if I involved my son, Dennis? He checks all the facts and researches backgrounds for my column. I could fax a copy of this sketch to him in San Francisco. If anyone can find out who this man is, he can."

"Go ahead. Could I get a couple extra copies from you?"

"Of course. Where can Dennis contact you with whatever information he finds out?"

Joe handed him his business card. "If I'm not at the office, Peggy knows how to get the information to me."

Joe stopped at door of Detective Lieutenant Adam Tobias's office in the LAPD's West Valley Station. He saw Adam making faces in the shaving mirror. Joe watched him smooth a couple of hairs on his upper lip.

"What's up with the mustache?" Joe asked.

"Oh, nothing. Thought I'd try something different." Adam hurried the mirror into his desk drawer. "So what's up?" He tried not to look embarrassed, and Joe tried not to smile. Ever since a certain family sitcom had come to television, Adam kept being mistaken for the actor who portrayed the father.

"This guy look familiar?" Joe handed Adam a copy of the sketch.

"No, nobody I've seen. Who is he and what's he done?"

"Probably nothing."

"Who did the sketch? A current case?"

"Missing person."

"Who's missing and why didn't they come to us?"

"Why do you even ask that? You know I can't tell you. Besides what you do is public record, what I do stays confidential."

"I can't help that. I have the citizens to answer to, not to mention my captain, his boss and a couple of chiefs."

"Relax. No one's been murdered just missing . . . maybe."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Don't you understand the meaning of the word maybe?"

"I understand the meaning but not when it's connected with a missing person. Explain to me how are you are _maybe a missing person_?"

"Adam!"

"Your missing persons have a way of turning up dead." Adam peeked at the sketch again. "What's he done? He's not the missing person?"

"He's not missing, just unknown. He may not have anything to do with my missing person, but I've got a hunch he's involved."

"Involved? How?"

"I don't know. He's been seen with my missing person. I need to find him and talk to him."

"I don't know what I can do to help, Joe." Adam peered at the sketch again.

"How about faxing the sketch out to the stations? Maybe somebody's seen him. Help me out on this one. This is all I got."

"You know the captain would have me back walking a beat in South Central if he knew I did this for you." Tobias dropped the copy on his desk. "I'll do what I can."

"Thanks, Adam."

"You're welcome, and Joe . . . don't wait too long to get us involved."

Mid-afternoon Joe returned with the sketchbook to his Paseo Verde office. He flipped to the page with the blonde man's sketch and handed it to Peggy.

"You ever see this guy hanging around Blake?"

She stared at the sketch. "No. Who is he?"

"Don't know." On the way upstairs to his apartment Joe grabbed his putter and a few golf balls. Peggy followed him carrying the sketchbook and her steno pad. "But every time Max Pomeroy saw him, Blake disappeared." He found a water glass and placed it on the floor for a putting target. "So far I know Blake's alive as of the morning rush at the George's Cafe a day and half ago. So what did you dig up on his past?" Joe putted and missed.

Peggy opened her steno pad and referred to her notes. "Born January 22, 1934 in New York City to Raymond and Elinor Blake, show biz types who come out to Los Angeles to make their fortune. Father did minor acting parts and made a decent living in the movies. Mother retired from show biz to stay at home to take care of Tony. Then World War II happened, father got drafted and left Elinor with Tony. Mother killed in defense plant accident. Both mother and father knew Max Braden."

"Of Braden Studios?"

"Yes, to Tony, he's Uncle Max. Because Braden and his wife didn't have any children of their own, he was like a son to them. Tony got his interest in magic from him. Tony's father is killed in combat. Braden became Tony's guardian."

"There wasn't anyone in either family who wanted him?"

"Don't know about that, but Braden pulled some strings and adopted Tony. Tony is sent to private schools. He graduated from high school in 1952 and got drafted. Braden could have gotten him out it, the Korean War, but Tony declined. He was in Aviation Corps, a crew chief on cargo planes.

"Discharged in 1954, went to college on the G.I. Bill as a drama major. After two years, he dropped out of college to pursue performing magic. Played a lower class of casinos and nightclubs until Irene DeNorr gave him a break in what turned out to be her last picture.

"In 1963 he went on what is supposed to be a two week good will tour in South and Central America and wound up imprisoned in a Costa Verde as a spy. It was never proven he was, but it was two years before he finally escaped. Took an older man with him when he did. Turned out that guy was filthy rich. Left Tony his fortune."

"So he doesn't need to work? Why not take it easy and enjoy life? Instead he flies around in that jet pulling rabbits out of a hat."

"He does more than that. He helps people."

"Helps people?"

"Jerry let it slip one time that Tony is like a white knight coming to rescue when people are in trouble."

"What does he do – give them money or something? A philanthropist?"

"He didn't say much more, but I got the idea that Tony is like Don Quixote, coming to the rescue of people in trouble."

"You mean he plays detective?"

"Something like that," Peggy answered.

"That's pretty vague."

"Maybe that's what's going on here? He's out tilting at windmills. Maybe he's gotten himself in over his head."

"I don't think so. He stopped to have breakfast. That's not the actions of a man in trouble." Joe putted some more. "And then there's that no-flight-plan trip to Miami and that blonde man. Did you find out if he's left town?"

"Nothing so far." Peggy chewed on her pencil. "If I don't know better, I'd almost say he's two people."

Joe stopped in the middle of his putting stroke. "What?"

"I said on one hand he's this world famous performer and then there's this crime fighter thing. All he needs is a cape."

The phone interrupted their conversation; Peggy answered. "It's Adam." She handed the phone to Joe.

"What have you got for me?"

"Hey, Joe, you must be the luckiest S.O.B. in Los Angeles. One of the harbor cops called in and said he's seen that guy from the sketch hanging around a warehouse on Terminal Island in San Pedro."

"Did he say what he was doing?"

"No, but it was about two days ago when he saw him."

"Two days ago! He's long gone. Did he say where?"

"At the corner of Tuna and Wharf."

"Thanks, Adam. And thank the cop for me, too."

"Will do. Later."


	3. Chapter 3

The Illusion of the Disappearing Act

by

BJ Thompson

Chapter 3

Please review.

Joe crossed the Heim Bridge onto Terminal Island. He wove his way through the streets until he came to where Tuna Street dead ended into Wharf Street.

Joe stopped to survey the area surrounding the lone building. A block to the south was a slip dock, to the north vacant lots. He drove past the building on Wharf Street, turned around parked on the street where he could observe the area.. The building was oddly deserted for a weekday; the whole area was. He noticed an extermination truck parked outside the building when he passed by. Signs were pasted on doors and windows warning of dangerous gases. No other cars, no people. The back of his neck tingled. What in the world could the blonde guy do in that building? And how was it connected to Blake? Is this another dead end?

His car phone buzzed. "Mannix."

"Joe, I've got a name for the man in the sketch. Dennis Pomeroy, Max's son, did some digging and called in with what he found."

"Who is he?"

"His name is James Phelps."

"What else?"

"Not much. Mostly found out he's some type of independent contractor for the government."

"Independent contractor? Doing what?"

"Dennis couldn't find out. He said he tried all his tricks and got nothing but the man's name."

"No address, no phone?"

"Not even a car registered to him, no driver's license, no military record or birth certificate."

"Who is Blake mixed up with?"

"I don't know, but Dennis said that at that secrecy level, whatever he's doing only a couple of people in the government know about it and they're not letting anybody like us in on it."

"Thanks, Peggy."

Joe exited his car. Time to discover what was going on in that building. He crept toward the building while twisting his head to make sure he was not being observed. He hugged the battleship gray walls as he searched for a way in. He glimpsed a person inside as he squinted through the dirty pane of glass. Big, tall, and muscular – the weightlifter! Joe watched him as he walked into a small, enclosed office near the front of the building and emerged with the blonde man, James Phelps, following him. So far no Blake, was he here? If they were the exterminators what or who were they exterminating?

He searched for a way in without making a lot of noise. He went as far away from the small office as he could get and found what he was searching for – a locked door. He slipped the lockpick kit from his inside coat pocket. Again he thanked Lew Wickersham for making his Intertect operatives learn how to pick a lock.

He selected the torsion wrench that fit the keyway and then slid the pick in to feel for each pin. In turn he depressed each pin until he sensed it give. Finally he felt the lock release. Slowly he turned the knob, entered the building while closing the door softly behind him.

The warehouse held the murmur of voices. He concealed himself behind one of the rows of wooden packing crates. Hearing footsteps, he ducked and flattened his body against the nearest crate. He held his breath as the footsteps returned and passed by him again. He waited a moment before he continued to prowl his way through the rows of crates, creeping closer to the voices. He peeped around the edge of a crate.

Anthony Blake sat at a small table with a lighted mirror putting on makeup and applying pieces of rubber to his face. Standing next to him Joe saw James Phelps. He was talking to Blake and watching him apply a disguise. The woman, with chestnut-colored hair that Jerry described, strolled into the office. Where was that weightlifter? Joe scanned the area around him, and then returned his attention to Phelps and Blake.

The phone rang. Phelps picked it up and listened. "We'll take care of it from here." He hung up, and nodded his head to someone out of Joe's sight.

"He's good," Phelps said to Blake.

"Max would only hire the best." Blake dabbed his makeup on blending the facial appliance to his face.

"You're going to have to talk to him, you know."

"I think he'll go along."

Joe heard a footfall behind him. Before he could turn, an arm grabbed him under his chin and lifted him off the concrete floor like he weighed fifty pounds instead of one hundred eighty. He struggled in the choke hold. He tried to elbow whoever held him, but he hit the brick-hard wall of a man's stomach. He twisted and rocked trying to free himself; he couldn't breathe . . . he couldn't breathe . . . he couldn't . . .

Car horns and engines revving jerked Joe awake. He opened his eyes to the morning rush hour on Santa Rosa Avenue. His head lay on his car door. He sat up, rubbed his chin and felt a day's growth of beard. His neck was stiff and sore, and his wrists and ankles were bruised. He stretched his arms and felt a nick of pain. He pushed up the sleeve on his left arm and found a needle puncture mark. Son of a bitch! He raced through the traffic to his office at the Paseo Verde and stormed into his office.

"Joe! I was getting worried. Tony Blake's back," Peggy said.

"I bet he is! I found him. I traced him to this warehouse on Terminal Island. He was putting on a disguise, you know, makeup like actors use to change their appearance and become another character."

"Makeup – why?"

"Before I could even ask what was going on – Pow! Somebody put a sleeper hold on me from behind. Probably that weightlifter. I started to come to, and then this woman shot me a sedative or something. When I came to the second time, I was in my car across town, like nothing happened. As soon as I get showered, shaved and out of these clothes, I'm paying Blake a visit."

Joe took the steps to his apartment two at a time. After he rid himself of his clothes, he let the hot water in the shower wash away his frustrations but not his anger. He rankled at how easy it had been to subdue him. He prided himself on his ability at getting out of any type of chokehold that had been put on him, but that Willie guy had the muscle to put him out in a matter of seconds.

He toweled off and rushed into his clothes. He would confront Blake about what had happened. He wanted to know what he was mixed up in and why the hell did they have to knock him out and drug him.

When Joe came out of his bedroom, he smelled the coffee before he saw Anthony Blake standing behind the breakfast nook in his kitchenette. Blake was poised in the motion of pouring a cup of coffee. The spout of the coffee pot hung over a mug.

"How do you take yours?" Blake asked.

"Black." Blake finished pouring coffee into a mug for Joe.

Joe stomped down the stairs from his bedroom and settled himself onto a stool at the breakfast nook while throwing his sport jacket on the table. "Well?"

"Joe, you need to forget everything you saw or heard."

"Why? I was choked out, drugged and then put in my car like nothing happened."

"As far as you're concerned, nothing did."

"What are you mixed up in?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Again, why?"

"I'm only going to say that it's a matter of national security."

"Who do you work for?"

"I've given Max and Jerry orders never to hire a detective to find me or to report me missing to the police when I 'disappear'. What I do when I'm gone is vitally important to this country. Nothing interferes with that. Nothing. Do you understand?"

Joe understood but that didn't mean he liked it.

"Do you understand?" Blake repeated.

"And what if I don't?"

"You don't want to even think about the repercussions of that."

"Look, Blake, I'll keep your secrets. I don't really care. I was just doing my job."

"As was I. Continue to do your job and keep your mouth shut. Do you have the sketchbook?"

Joe scanned the living room and retrieved the sketchbook Peggy left on the coffee table. He handed it Blake who found the page with the James Phelps sketch. He tore it out, crumpled it and made it disappear. He did the little nothing-up-my-sleeve trick and pulled out a couple of show passes.

"These are good for any show, any time." He held them out to Joe who refused to take the offering. Blake dropped the tickets on the counter. "Don't forget to send me your bill." He proceeded to the apartment door.

"That's it? You waltz in here and tell me to keep my mouth shut?"

"Better me than some of the people I know."

"Are you threatening me?"

Blake smiled. "I don't threaten, I perform."

"Tell me this: who had your car towed?"

"I did."

"You?"

"A little misdirection. Stay safe."

"Blake! Costa Verde? It's true about you being a spy for the government?"

"You really expect an answer?" With a slam of the door, Anthony Blake vanished again.

Joe felt like someone who got off with warning when he could have gotten an expensive speeding ticket. Only this ticket could have cost him his life. Anthony Blake must be was spying for the US, because otherwise Joe knew he wouldn't have been alive to have this talk with him.

Joe scooped up the passes and slid them into his shirt pocket. He picked up the mug and took it to the sink. Before he dumped the coffee, he sniffed it. The aroma made him take a quick sip. He took another sip. Speedily, he unplugged the coffee pot, and took the mug, his coat and the pot downstairs to the office. Peggy was working at her desk when he arrived.

"Well?" she asked.

Joe poured the coffee into a mug and handed her it to her.

"Go ahead, taste it."

Peggy's eyes widened as she tried the brew. "Ooo, when did you learn to make good coffee?"

"Courtesy of Anthony Blake, the magician."

"We need to get his secret."

"I doubt he'll tell you. That magician keeps his secrets very well."

Joe sipped the coffee. "Prepare the bill for this little adventure and send it to Blake. Okay, what's on the agenda for today?"

Peggy followed Joe into his office carrying her mug of coffee, her steno pad and the morning paper. Another day at 17 Paseo Verde had begun and, finally, with good cup of joe.

The End


End file.
